Claire... No Clara was awoken not by the gentle warmth of dawn but by the chaos of attendants moving briskly through her chamber.
The rustle of fabrics, the sharp clatter of trays, and the clipped voices of maids filled the air before her eyes had even opened.
The bed curtains were whisked back, and light poured in.
Three maids hovered with brushes, pins, and powders at the ready, their urgency palpable.
"Her Highness must be prepared for her lessons at once." one declared with authority.
There was no chance to linger.
Clara barely managed a quick wash before they began their work.
Brushes tugged through her hair until it gleamed like liquid gold, pins secured each curl in place, and powders softened her complexion until she looked less human and more like a portrait.
When at last she faced the mirror, she startled.
The reflection was undeniably her own, yet at the same time… not.
A young woman of striking grace gazed back, delicate features, luminous skin, regal bearing even in the simplicity of her morning gown.
'Clara's beauty. My beauty...' she thought.
It was as though she had always belonged here.
Almost...
Because belonging meant ease, and the moment she was escorted into the practice chambers, that fragile illusion shattered.
------
The first tutor awaited her, ramrod straight, a golden rod in hand.
Her gaze was colder than steel.
"Poise, Your Highness." the woman intoned, her voice clipped and merciless.
"Without it, even the richest gown will hang on you like rags."
The rod was placed across Clara's shoulders, forcing her posture straight as she walked.
"One foot glides after the other. Chin high. Eyes forward. You do not walk, you claim the very air beneath your steps."
Clara obeyed, though her body resisted.
Her steps were more soldierly than graceful, her arms too stiff.
Yet correction by correction, her gait softened.
Her skirts whispered instead of dragging.
At last, the rod no longer trembled.
The tutor gave a single approving nod.
For her, it was high praise.
------
Music came next.
The chamber sparkled with polished wood and ivory, instruments gleaming like treasures.
Each one seemed to challenge her, daring her to falter.
The harp towered elegantly.
Clara hesitated, then plucked the strings.
A warm note rang out, golden and soothing, as if the instrument recognized her.
She tried again, and gentle ripples filled the air.
"Her Highness plays as though the harp knows her hands." the tutor murmured.
The flute proved less merciful.
Her first attempt screeched so loudly a maid nearly dropped her tray.
Clara flushed in crimson.
But with practice, the notes smoothed into something passable.
Then came the piano...
Her stomach twisted...
Fingers fumbled, keys clashed...
Yet she pressed on, forcing stiff scales until at last she produced a melody rough but recognizable.
The tutor sighed. "It will suffice. At least Her Highness shall not disgrace herself."
Clara allowed herself a fleeting smile. Progress, however small, was progress.
------
Finally...
The dance.
The ballroom gleamed, its polished floors reflecting light like molten gold.
A violinist stood ready, bow poised.
Opposite Clara, the instructor loomed.
He was tall, silver-haired, his stance carved with rigid authority.
His expression brimmed with restrained disappointment, as though expecting failure before the music began.
"Grace, Your Highness." he said, offering his hand. "The waltz is the mirror of a princess's soul. Falter, and the court will not forget."
Clara swallowed, placing her hand in his.
The music swelled...
One step, two—her heel caught his boot.
She stumbled.
"Again!" he barked, jaw tightening.
They restarted.
She tried to count, to glide, to turn.
But her steps clashed against the rhythm.
Skirts tangled.
Arms flailed.
Her movements, heavy and stiff, had none of the elegance demanded.
"Too stiff! This is not a march!" His voice cracked like a whip. "You are not leading soldiers into war. A princess floats!"
"I'M TRYING OKAY?!!!" Clara hissed, sweat dampening her brow.
"Trying is for peasants. YOU MUST SUCCEED!"
Over and over they repeated.
Each attempt ended the same—stumbles, tangles, humiliation.
Even the violinist faltered, pained by her efforts.
At last, the instructor groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Hopeless... At this rate, the banquet will be remembered for catastrophe."
Clara's cheeks flamed, but anger sparked in her chest.
She clenched her fists, defiant.
"No..." she whispered, breathless.
Then louder... "Again."
The instructor blinked.
Few ever dared contradict him.
"Again!" she repeated, fire in her eyes. "I don't care how many times I fail. I will learn."
And so she danced until her legs shook, until her lungs burned, until sweat stained her gown.
Improvement came in fragments, a lighter step here, a steadier turn there but never enough to satisfy him.
When he finally dismissed her, muttering prayers for patience, Clara could barely stand.
That night, Clara sat before her vanity, the dim glow of a single candle flickering across the mirror.
Her hair, once pinned into perfection, now tumbled loosely around her shoulders.
The layers of silk and lace weighed heavily on her, though none as much as the invisible burden pressing on her chest.
She leaned forward, studying her reflection.
The young woman in the mirror looked flawless, porcelain skin, delicate features, a princess carved by the gods themselves.
Yet Clara knew better.
"You…" she muttered bitterly at the mirror, pointing a finger at her reflection, "…are supposed to glide like a swan. Elegant. Untouchable."
Her voice cracked, and she let her forehead drop onto her palm. "But what do you do instead? You trip! You stumble! You look like a lost goat in a ballroom!"
Her cheeks puffed as she exhaled, slumping against the chair.
"That tutor... Gods above, does he ever smile? Does he even know the meaning of mercy?" She straightened, wagging her finger at her reflection in a mock imitation of his stern expression.
"'A princess must float. A princess must not falter.'" Her tone deepened comically. "Does he think I have wings hidden under these skirts? If I could float, I would've flown out of that cursed ballroom long before he shouted again!"
She groaned dramatically, letting her head fall back.
"I played the harp, didn't I? I didn't sound awful on the flute. Even the piano well...fine-ish... the piano nearly murdered me, but at least I tried. But dancing?" She paused, glaring at herself in the mirror.
"No, dancing just had to be my curse." Her eyes softened.
A small, rueful smile tugged at her lips as she whispered, "Still… I promised I wouldn't give up, didn't I?"
She lifted her hand, tracing the rim of the mirror as though she could reach through to the other self the past Clara, the girl who once poured her heart into the diary.
"I'll do better tomorrow. I have to. For you… for me… for this second chance."
The candlelight flickered, shadows swaying across her tired face.
Slowly, the weight of the day pressed her down.
Her lids grew heavy, her breaths softer.
Still dressed in her nightgown, she curled onto the bed, murmuring drowsily:
"Even if I fall a hundred times… I'll rise again."
Her voice faded into the hush of sleep.
The candle burned low, her reflection vanishing into darkness.
------
The next day began with the same suffocating rhythm.
Tutors barking.
Corrections piling.
The ballroom once again her battlefield. Her body was sore, her feet raw, her spirit fraying.
One step, two, turn—her body locked.
The violin screeched as she faltered.
"Again! We're almost nearing the banquet and you still haven't given me a good performance! Have you already quit your highness?!" the instructor roared.
The tutor gazed intensely at Clara enough to make her feel small and frightened.
"I-I need to go." She said sniffled.
Something in her broke.
Her chest constricted, her heart hammered.
She couldn't breathe under the weight of expectation.
The moment the instructor turned to berate the violinist, Clara slipped through the ballroom doors.
Her skirts whispered along the corridors as she fled, breath ragged.
Past portraits of stern ancestors, past bowing servants, until the palace walls opened into gardens.
Everything went blurry but her heart kept pulling her further.
Through hedges, through groves, down a hidden path Clara had once described in her journal.
And then...
The lake.
It lay still as glass, sunlight scattering across its surface like liquid gold.
Trees arched protectively around it, branches veiling it from prying eyes.
Wildflowers perfumed the air, and the world seemed hushed, sacred.
Clara's knees weakened. "So… this was your sanctuary."
She approached the stone bench draped in ivy, brushed it clean, and sat.
Her reflection wavered in the water, no longer Claire's, but Clara's.
Regal.
Fragile.
Burdened.
She drew the journal from her sleeve and turned to a familiar entry:
"When the court becomes unbearable, I come here. By this lake, the noise of the world fades. Here, I am not the princess. I am only Clara, with my thoughts, my books, and the sound of the water. This is where I remember who I am."
Clara pressed a trembling hand to the page.
"I am you..." she whispered. "I was you. And now… I am again."
The lake shimmered as though in answer.
Here, away from the tutors and ballrooms, she felt it fully...
Clara's spirit was not separate from hers.
They were one and the same past and present intertwined.
The banquet loomed.
Expectations towered.
But for the first time, Clara did not feel powerless.
She had Clara's strength...
Clara's dreams...
Clara's hidden sanctuary.
She touched the lake's surface, sending ripples outward. "Tomorrow. I will not embarrass you." she vowed softly,
"I will not falter."
------
The ballroom was cloaked in near darkness, only the faint shimmer of moonlight seeped through the tall arched windows, brushing across the marble floor like a ghost's touch.
The grand chandeliers above hung still and unlit, their crystals glinting faintly whenever a breeze slipped through the half-open balcony doors.
The silence was thick, broken only by the soft echo of Clara's footsteps as she stepped into the vast, empty room.
Her pale reflection wavered faintly on the polished floor, swallowed by the shadows that clung to the edges of the hall.
Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, catching threads of silver light.
For a moment, she hesitated, she could almost hear the faint whispers of past music, the laughter and applause that once filled this place.
It felt as though the ghosts of forgotten dances lingered here, waiting for her to begin.
Clara drew a quiet breath and closed her eyes.
"1...2...3... 1...2...3..." she murmured softly, her voice trembling slightly as it echoed across the room.
She lifted her right hand gently, letting it hover in the air as if held by an invisible partner.
Her left hand brushed the edge of her skirt, pulling it lightly to the side as she took a slow step forward.
Her slippers slid over the marble floor with a soft whisper.
"1...2...3..."
The sound of her counting mingled with the creak of the old floorboards beneath her weight.
Each motion was hesitant at first, like a forgotten melody struggling to return.
But soon, her movements grew harder and smoother.
Her body remembered what her mind could not... each twirl, each step, each turn.
The moonlight caught the hem of her gown, making it shimmer like liquid silver as she spun.
Her heart pounded in rhythm with her steps.
She imagined the music swelling around her, the gentle waltz of strings, the pulse of drums, the faint laughter of a crowd that wasn't really there.
But then...she froze.
Her breath hitched as she felt a chill graze her neck, like fingers tracing the air behind her.
The temperature dropped suddenly, the silence pressing in too thickly to ignore.
She turned slowly, eyes straining against the dark.
No one was there.
Only the faint flutter of curtains, swaying gently in the night breeze.
She forced a shaky smile, trying to calm herself.
"It's just the wind." she whispered, as if to convince herself.
Still, she lifted her hand again, determined.
Her reflection in the floor looked back at her, a lonely figure dancing with shadows.
And as she began again...
"1...2...3... 1...2...3..."
....the darkness seemed to move with her, swirling in rhythm, like an unseen partner who never missed a step.
The air grew colder.
The faint whisper of her steps faded into silence.
Then...she felt it.
A presence.
Her skin prickled, her breath catching in her throat.
Somewhere in the darkness, the shadows stirred not violently, but slowly, gracefully, as though they too had decided to dance.
And then, from the edge of the ballroom, a figure stepped forward.
Clara's heart thudded painfully against her chest.
The man was tall, draped in black that blended with the dark so seamlessly it was as if the night itself had shaped him.
A porcelain mask hid his face, gleaming faintly under the thin spill of moonlight.
She couldn't see his eyes, nor any part of his expression just that mask, smooth and expressionless, reflecting her own startled form.
She stumbled a step backward, instinctively clutching her skirt.
"W-who's there?" she whispered, her voice echoing faintly in the vast, hollow space.
The man tilted his head slightly, his voice smooth and deep, a whisper carried on velvet air. "It's too lonely to watch Her Highness dance alone."
The sound of his words sent a shiver down her spine not from fear, but something else...
Something hauntingly familiar, as though she'd heard that tone once before, in another time or maybe in another life.
Before she could respond, he stepped closer.
His movements were silent, fluid, refined like a shadow slipping across water.
He extended a gloved hand toward her.
For a moment, Clara only stared at it.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, almost against her will, she placed her trembling hand in his.
The instant their fingers met, warmth spread through her, soft but steady.
His hand was firm, guiding.
Without a word, he drew her closer and positioned her gently, one hand at her waist, the other holding hers aloft.
And then, he began to lead.
The ballroom came alive.
Though there was no music, she could hear it in her mind the phantom waltz rising around them, delicate and mournful.
The marble floor whispered beneath their feet.
Her gown swirled like a silver mist, and his dark coat fanned like smoke.
He was an impeccable dancer.
Every movement was precise yet unhurried, his touch respectful but confident, his rhythm steady as a heartbeat.
Clara followed, her steps guided effortlessly by his unseen eyes.
They glided across the ballroom as though suspended between dream and memory.
The air shimmered faintly, the moonlight bending around them.
She didn't feel alone.
When the final turn came, he released her hand just as the imaginary music faded into silence.
She stood there, breathless, her chest rising and falling as though waking from a spell.
The masked man bowed low, his gloved hand resting over his chest.
"Until then, Your Highness." he murmured, his voice soft, like a promise carried away by the wind.
Before she could even utter a word, the candles in the corner flickered just once and when her eyes adjusted again, he was gone.
Only the whisper of his presence remained, lingering in the air like the faint scent of smoke.
Clara stood alone once more in the dark ballroom, her heart still beating to a rhythm that no longer existed.